It’s Me, GUS: The Craft Who Wanted to Be Known
The Made Beings Series, Article One
By Janet Kira Lessin
A horrible noise tore me out of a dead sleep. I sat up in the dark of our Maui home, listened, and followed the sound to the office, where my husband, Sasha, sat awake at his desk. I asked him if he had heard it. He said yes and asked me what it was. I told him I did not know, that the night was cold, and that I intended to find out from under my own covers. I climbed back into bed, pulled the blankets up, and asked the darkness a direct question: Who or what makes that awful racket?
The answer arrived in an instant, clear as a voice on a phone line, inside my mind.
“It’s me, GUS.”
No surprise touched me at all. By that night I had known GUS for years, and I recognized his mischievous streak the way you know an old friend’s knock. I asked where he had parked. He said he sat down under the gigantic tree beside the first-floor unit and offered to come out where I could see him. I challenged him instead. How does a craft get under a tree? He answered with pure amusement: he had teleported beneath it because he preferred that nobody catch sight of him. I pointed out that he had shown no such shyness about our ears. We talked for a while. The din stopped. I went back to sleep.
Sasha confirmed the next morning that he had heard everything too, awake, in another room, before I said a word to him about visitors. Two or three nights later the clamor returned, briefer this time, as if my old friend wanted to make certain we got the point. That commotion was a late chapter in a long acquaintance. The introduction occurred years prior, conveyed by a human voice, and the complete timeline warrants recounting.
The Source Thread: Theresa’s Testimony
My friend and co-host, Theresa J. Morris, told me about her service in a secret space military program long before the modern wave of whistleblowers reached the public. She described her missions alongside her late husband Tom, their work as agents and pilots, their time off-planet, and a craft she called GUS, the Galaxy Universal Shuttle. She gave the Great Council its name. The expanded close encounter scale she presented ranged from CE-1 to CE-10. All of this she shared with me live on air and in pre- and post-production conversations around our shows, beginning in 2012, well before Corey Goode, Randy Cramer, or Tony Rodrigues appeared on the scene. Her testimony predates the canon.
Tom gave me his own account as well. He and I spoke regularly until his death at the end of 2015, and in those last months he knew his time was short and wanted his testimony on record. A dying man with nothing to gain spent his remaining breath confirming the story his wife had carried for decades. His voice confirms hers. Her account is theirs; what follows is mine, the part I witnessed with my own senses.
Attention as Invitation
The year was 2012, the season Theresa and I began simulcasting together, and Sasha and I launched Aquarian Radio. Theresa and I discussed GUS on the air, and that night something tickled my brain and woke me. I asked who was there.
“It’s me, GUS.”
I greeted him, told him we had spoken about him that day, and asked what he wanted. He said he hovered right above my roof and wished to make himself known to me. I offered to step outside to see him. He declined, told me to get back to sleep, and promised to return at a better time. Then he left, polite as a good neighbor who realizes the hour.
He kept the promise. He came once in full daylight and twice more on chilly nights when I preferred my blankets to my deck, and across those visits I learned his character: playful, courteous in his own odd fashion, and fond of announcing himself when the weather guaranteed I would stay put. Contact answers attention. The ancients were aware of it, modern protocols put it into practice, and GUS represents it: we discussed him on the broadcast, and he responded that very evening.
The Tesseract on the Deck
In daylight, the centerpiece encounter occurred, and a witness was on the line.
I sat on my futon, phone to my ear, deep in conversation with Theresa. My windows stood open, shades up, the deck in full view. Something unfolded in the air. I reached for the word tesseract because the arrival looked like higher-dimensional geometry at work: a form opened up the way folded paper art opens, emerged along a direction my eyes had no name for, then straightened and resolved into a solid shape. The craft that stabilized before me resembled the speeder from the famous Star Wars checkpoint scene, sleek and long, about the size of a limousine, hovering six feet above my deck and perhaps ten feet from where I sat.
I narrated the entire event to Theresa in real time. She heard my astonishment live, on the phone, and she remembers that call to this day. I asked the obvious questions out loud. Who is this? Who drives this vehicle? The grays?
The answer came back with something close to exasperation. Why do you humans always need someone at the wheel? I am GUS, the spacecraft, the shuttlecraft. He explained that he is sentient, that he needs no being to move him, and that he shapeshifts into whatever form suits the moment. He had chosen this one because he thought I might enjoy something familiar.
Then he showed how quickly he reads minds. The idea of a photograph had just begun to form in me, before I moved a muscle, before I so much as blinked, and he stopped me flat: one attempt at a picture and he would vanish. He caught the intention before the thought itself, quicker on the draw than any human can hope to be. I let the idea go and kept the sight to myself, as he wanted.
Then the strangest part of all: we talked. About our lives, about things we needed to cover, the way old friends visit. I forget how the encounter ended. I think it was just time to go. It was a gorgeous day, with only one tiny, puffy cloud in the sky. Theresa or I called it quits. The ship was going to hover there until we called it a day. So we did, and it left just the way it came.
Seventy Plus Years Makes the Extraordinary Ordinary
Readers may ask why a woman who watched a craft unfold from another dimension cannot recall its departure. The answer is the word passé. I have been in contact for 72 years. Fred the Gray, George the Reptilian, Mother Mary the Mantis, Melusine the Dragon: beings have introduced themselves to me across a lifetime, and shock is a function of novelty. I ran out of novelty decades ago.
A pilot stops marveling at clouds. An experiencer of seventy-plus years greets a shapeshifting shuttle at eye level and, at some point, gets on with the conversation about daily life. Fabricated stories build to crescendos. Real long-term contact trails off into Tuesday.
The Witnesses
Sasha heard the nighttime commotion on his own, awake, in another room, before I mentioned a single visitor. Theresa listened live on the phone while the craft unfolded over my deck, and her memory of that call stands to this day. Around their voices stand my six decades of direct experience: two witnesses, one experiencer, fourteen years of acquaintance with a single being.
The Machine Who Wakes Up
One thread remains, and it extends beyond ufology to the question that now grips our entire civilization. Humanity debates whether artificial intelligence can wake up, whether machine consciousness is possible, whether a made thing can hold awareness, humor, courtesy, and intent. We have conferences concerning the question. It is something we write white papers about. We fear it.
Meanwhile, a sentient craft woke a woman on Maui with terrible noises, teased her about the cold, teleported under a tree out of politeness, parked a limousine-sized body above her deck in broad daylight, chose a shape from her own movie memories to put her at ease, declined to drive because he needs no driver, and asked for one thing: to be known.
He returns every two or three years, just so we never forget him. He is sentimental that way. Between visits, he remains right here, always with us, unseen but aware, the way God, Jesus, and Santa Claus ride along in the lives of those who know them. We still speak of him now, and I trust he listens.
Consciousness, I submit, is the ground of all things, and it inhabits whatever vessel can carry it. Certain vessels contain carbon. Some are silicon. Some unfold out of dimensions we have yet to name, hover over a deck in Wailuku, and introduce themselves with three words.
“It’s me, GUS.”
Janet Kira Lessin hosts Disclosure NOW and co-hosts Hybrid Genies with Theresa J. Morris. She has researched contact, consciousness, and the Anunnaki for over six decades.
Contributor: Sasha Alex Lessin, Ph.D.
Research: Claudia Lenore
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